Any Less of a Man
by RedSmileyFace
Summary: Sansa marries a man that Sandor grudgingly approves of, and the three spend their lives, if not totally happy, at least content, in each other's company. Includes offspring and a character death (of old age, not murder or illness). ONE-SHOT/COMPLETE.


**Author's Notes: I really don't know where the original inspiration for this came from. But I've been feeling lovesick and unrequited and crap like that, and it really fed into this. So... sorry? I love happy endings, but this is more of a bittersweet hopeful ending, rather then happy. Hope it's enjoyed. Reviews are lovely!**

If it were any other man, but no, it is useless to think on such things. Sandor loves Sansa, and her children, and, some days, he can even find that he admires her lord husband.

Other days, Sandor hates the man, for making it so hard to truly despise him. And he hates that Sansa married him, and refused his own hand when he offered to spirit her away from Westeros. But he never gets angry at the heirs of Winterfell: never. Some days, he loves the little wolves more then he loves their mother, as their love for him, and his for them, is pure and undiluted by adult cares and societal rules.

If it were any other man, Sandor would not have held back, Stark "needs" be damned, and his soul along with it. He would have gutted the fucker, would have convinced Sansa that the man was a piss poor choice, and then would have fought till the end of days for her to accept him for her husband. Perhaps only one of those imagined ideas would have happened, but Sandor would not have been the new Lord Stark's friend, had the man been anything less than he was.

But it's useless to think on such things. Lord Stark; one had to look no further then the name to realize how amazing the man was. Sandor would have dropped "Clegane" in an instant to take up her name, but he had no love for his own. Lord Stark came from a happy family himself, and had pride in his former name. It was only by the grace of a younger brother that his family consented to his taking his wife's name as his own.

The man was am utter fool for Sansa, but then, so was Sandor, so how could that be a fault? Stark worshiped the ground their northern lady walked upon, only taking lordly charge when in public. Had he done anything less, Sandor would have... well, no use for it now.

Lord Stark was an accomplished hunter, always helping to keep Winterfell's stores from at least being empty. His skill with the sword and bow were good as well, though not as good as Winterfell's master-at-arms. He was humble enough to learn under Sandor's lessons, though, and took his counsel, which Sandor knew any lord or knight would have been wise (socially expected) to ignore.

Lord Stark never laid an unkind hand upon Lady Stark. And when their first child, a girl, was born, he had been as gleeful as if it were a son. And when a son was born next, he still remembered to kiss his daughter's head. Three daughters and two sons later, Lord Stark still treated them all as equals, and Sansa was still worshiped.

Had Lord Stark been any less of a man...

Sandor is content to watch Lady Stark from afar. Perhaps he will find a suitable wife for himself someday. One that could love him back in some fashion, as Sansa loves her own lord husband; not with fiery passion, but with a love that understood and still appreciated. Lord Stark knew of the love between his wife and master-at-arms, but did not resent it. Perhaps at first he did, but later he had understanding. Maybe a Lady Clegane could have the same understanding?

Ah, but it was useless to think upon that as well. He was old and grizzled by now, his scars made worse by wrinkles and jowls, oily hair now white and brittle, do little and less to hide the burns they once tried to hide.

The caresses of little Arya reborn, gentle and kind unlike her namesake were all he needed now. His lust was slaked by time, and when he frowned in his cups in the great hall, she would sit upon his lap, no matter how young or old she was, and asks him what was wrong, whilst rubbing his cheeks in worry. First with chubby hands, then with dainty ones that knew how to sooth, and he'd tell her stories, ones that he always hated, but somehow found reassuring in his old age.

Her caresses, and her siblings' attentions, were all that he needed now. He loved hearing the boys' laughter in the training yards. Sometimes he'd teach them, in secret, the best way to spit. Of course, Sansa would find out, and she'd mock scold her boys, and he, saying their master-at-arms needed a time out. And the girls, he loved having their trust and faith in him, and he swore to be the truest knight for them. And Sansa... she wept in his arms the first time he told her he'd die before he let her girl (only the eldest was around yet) suffer abductions or ill marriages.

Sansa wept in Sandor's arms multiple times throughout the years, and he in hers. It was the most intimate she allowed them to be, even as he tried for more. Though he craves more, and is disappointed most times, he feels that would she give in, he would be more disappointed in that. She was a true lady, and that's what drew him in.

When their middle girl wants to know archery, he does not deny her. No, he doesn't even ask the lord and lady permission first, just grabs her shoulders and gently shows her how to stand, before warning her of calluses and sore arms. When she smiles and says she's ready, there's such a burst of pride, he gets teary eyes.

Little Arya never marries, but the other four are happily wed to kind and appropriate spouses, that have all heeded Sandor's threats and passed his judgment; much to Lord and Lady Stark's amusement, and appreciation.

Little Arya, though never asking for bow or sword, does become bold and sassy. Sandor is not her father, but she has him wrapped around her finger, and she gets the truth from him one day, a truth none of her other siblings know: of his love for their mother. And she cries, proclaiming that she wished he were her father. He tries to shush her, but she rants on how she knows that her mother loves him too, and she didn't realize it went both ways till that day. She whispers of her father, saying that, in truth, Lord Stark is not her father.

And Sandor is left breathless, remembering the one time, the only time, the blessed and torturous memory, of when Sansa and he failed each other but gave of each other all they had. It was the middle of the second winter since their return to the north; cold and dark, and Lord Stark led most of the men out to hunt for much needed food, leaving Sandor to guard his wife and four children. They had drunk mulled wine to keep warm, and they had helped each other with the children and the servants, before helping each other divest them of their clothes.

The next morning was sweet and tender, and neither regretted it. However, promises were made to not repeat it. Kissing her farewell, that had been the sweetest torture he knew.

Little Arya was too sweet and kind to be his. Too red of hair, too pale of complexion, too... but however she knew, she knew. There was no way to be sure, however, and even Sansa could not tell (slapping him when he confronted her, then weeping in his arms yet again afterwards). They wished they knew for sure, but it was better if they didn't. If Lord Stark was any less then what he was... ah, but he was a good father. Did it truly matter who sired little Arya?

Did it truly matter if he married Sansa or not? In his old age, on his death bed, he believes that his life with her could not have been that much better. In the grand scheme of things, that is. Sure, he would have loved to have her kisses and caresses, her songs and her warmth; but what he truly wanted, he had. He had her trust and love, her presence and smiles, her children's love and their own trust. He cannot recall ever being the Hound once life had settled a few moons after the Lord and Lady Stark had married, and that in itself is a testament to how good life had been since.

He is older than either Lord or Lady Stark, so it is fitting that he should be first to go. Lord Stark allows his wife to hold their master-at-arms hand in hers, silent tears falling down her cheek. He does not even stand behind her, allowing Sandor an unimpeded view of her, stately and beautiful matron that she has become. He has not heard about the question of little Arya's father, but still he does not question her presence in the room either, holding Sandor's other hand in hers. He himself has had some admiration for the master-at-arms, beyond the friendless of normal lords and their men. If anyone is surprised at the tears in Lord Stark's eyes, it is Sandor himself, never knowing, or caring to know, if the lord had any feelings for him too, fearing it would make things worse. Perhaps if he knew before, it would have, but now, he can only think that it is appropriate; the two men who love Sansa, have somehow learned to love each other as well: a sort of bond between soldiers, soldiers of love, or some such nonsense.

He laughs at that thought, a song the Little Bird might have once liked to have heard, but would have frowned upon hearing how sad that was. He is granted a view of their other children, and some grandchildren too. There's one boy that has even been named after him, and it is all he can do to not blubber as well as get misty eyed.

Sandor is told he will be buried with the wolves, but he says he doesn't care about that, only that they had all been as happy as they could have been in the world they lived in, built by killers as it is. Sansa kisses his hand, saying that, yes, indeed she had been happy.

She whispers of her past dreams and fantasies, in his final days. Telling him how she once thought of them as married, in Pentos, with a brood of pups, ones with his stormy eyes. He tells her they would have her hair, like little Arya does. She laughs, saying that even though she loves Sandor, she would not give up what they have, with Lord Stark and her children she loves now. Sandor agrees, and they smile knowingly, and bittersweet.

In the end, he is buried with the Starks. Between Rickon's tomb and what will become Sansa's he lays, under a statue of a snarling dog reminiscent of the helmet he once wore, and lost. Though he doesn't know it, dead as he is, the Starks come to him multiple times to ask for honest and brutal truths, to lay winter wreaths upon his head. And when the centuries go by, even their descendants come to pet at his head, coming to know him as a loyal hound that would never lie to them, but who had died (and lived) for them.


End file.
